Tell Our Past I Said Hello
by exordia
Summary: There's Kagami and Kuroko with a baptism, a wedding, and a funeral. ;; happy birthday, rena (kendamas)!


**tell our past i said hello;**

**.**

(It's the constellations telling us that we can't rewrite what's already been written, but damn them for lasting so long and engraving themselves on the sky where they died millennia ago.

It's the rasping wind when it sounds so similar to a voice that's probably the last you heard in your previous lifetime.

It's us burning down these photographs and saying, never again.

It's us overriding yesterday with today.

It's us falling in love all over again.)

.

There's this boy who ran away, got lost, and thought that he'd found himself back at where he started.  
There's another boy who ran and never found himself again.

.

Finally, there's Kagami and there's Kuroko with a baptism, a wedding, and a funeral.

.

.

.

There are good things that even Kagami regrets having:

a) His vibrant crimson hair,

b) The ability to loom over people and an eye level of more than six feet, and

c) The instant recognition from being on the Clippers.

Considering that his arrival has been much-awaited since the day the word about a high school reunion got out, Kagami really should've planned his outfit better. Don none of those blazers, ditch the Ray-bans and trade them for cheap imitations, and, for Pete's sake, at least grab a hideous fedora—anything that could put him in the lowest level of incognito mode. It doesn't really help that American stores have great variety and _his_ sizes, and that he's a perpetual face in the shopping districts. He'd be damned if he doesn't get to wear at least one of the articles that has 'L.A.' stamped across the front.

In retrospect, Kagami shouldn't be surprised by the number of people waving cameras and notebooks in the arrival area.

Except he still is.

Kagami cusses under his breath and makes a beeline for the airport exit, which is probably an hour away if he's taking the density of the crowd into account. He hears some shrieking in the background and chants of his name, and he's not sure if the shutters' noises are any indication that he may not get out of this unscathed.

Kagami's still not used to the publicity and the attention. Of course, it's bad if the press manages to capture a photo of him running over his fans, but he figures that it's better to leave a terrible impression rather than have himself grin at the cameras and be held up in the first few meters of Tokyo that he has traveled after not visiting for a couple of years.

When he thinks about it, though, he's screwed anyway. The mere fact that he's here is probably the biggest bane of his life—Kagami's had the good life in the West Coast, and everything else ran on its own accord. Kagami had to cope with the whirlwind of being one of the most valuable players in California, and swimming with the tides meant hanging out and partying and dating and having one-night stands and—really, it makes his head hurt thinking of all the stupidity he had been lured to.

He's changed.

Maybe coming back to Japan is equivalent to coming back to himself.

It's not that easy, especially since all of the people he used to know are practically strangers to him now.

Skype was an option, except timezones are frustrating to deal with and Kagami wouldn't want to keep the guys up during the wee hours of the morning. Emails sometimes worked—but Kagami wasn't good at writing what he wanted to say, and it made him uneasy to hear stories of everyone at university. After all, he might as well be someone who's watching his friends and rivals proceed with their lives while he's trying to find his own in a place that's millions of miles away.

Bottomline is, none of this was the others' fault. He's not entirely sure why he cut off all connections when he started playing professional basketball.

The only thing he knows is that he didn't want to come back. Funny to think that he's here, running from the Japanese paparazzi and fans with just as much battery on their cameras. Soon, the news of his arrival will spread like wildfire, and he's not convinced that everybody will be glad for his return.

What he's certain about, however, is the fact that someone will be terribly disappointed.

[-]

There are beautiful things that Kagami is scared of seeing:

a) Pale blue hair,

b) Thin frame,

c) Nimble hands,

d) Porcelain skin,

e) Kuroko Tetsuya, _period,_ and

f) Kuroko's goddamn eyes—those unyielding, silent blue orbs that can see through anyone—and, honestly, Kagami doesn't know if Kuroko's eyes will judge, or soften, or blame, or glare, or not focus on him at all.

He'd rather not know what exactly Kuroko will do when they meet again.

Punch him in the face, perhaps? Land him one of those Ignite passes that he used to be able to catch (key word: used to) in high school?

Kagami's not really sure if those physical forms of retribution will hurt as much as the image of Kuroko just staring him down, unearthing and unraveling everything that's not the same anymore. Kuroko will observe his tan line, his lies, the calloused hands which have touched someone other than him, and Kagami's mouth that opens only to emit no sound.

There are no excuses, and Kagami doesn't plan to make one.

Maybe he'll just avoid Kuroko for the rest of his vacation, crash into an acquaintance's apartment, and lay low. Escaping from Kuroko meant steering clear of every reliable source, which also meant hiding from anybody whom Kuroko knew personally.

.

Out of choices, Kagami finds himself in front of Midorima's clinic.

It's just his luck when Midorima closes his clinic down and calls it a day. Kagami drops his luggage on the asphalt sidewalk and pockets his shaking hands.

Midorima locks the clinic door, turns around, and raises an eyebrow.

"H-hey," Kagami smiles awkwardly.

There's a moment of eerie silence between them as Midorima sums Kagami up with an analytical glare. Kagami scratches the back of his neck and pulls his beanie farther down, looking around for any passersby who might recognize him.

When Midorima does speak, he only says, "Clinic's closed. You can come again tomorrow at 8."

Midorima brushes past a stunned Kagami, until the latter turns on his heel and spits, "Wait!"

Stopping in his tracks, Midorima eyes Kagami cautiously. After all these years, he looks exactly like his high school self—only now he appears colder, clad in a suit and tie.

Kagami catches his breath and clenches his jaw. "Look, I know that you really don't care about why I'm here—"

"Good to know," Midorima cuts off.

"—but I need your help," Kagami hisses. "You're one of the people whom others won't expect me to approach at a time like this."

Midorima huffs, checking his wristwatch. "I don't understand why you have to hide."

"It's complicated," is Kagami's standard reply, but the demand in Midorima's eyes eventually cause him to blurt his reasons. "I…just want to get off everybody else's radar. Especially my former teammates', at least until our reunion."

"What makes you think that I'm as generous as you think I am?" Midorima says.

"I don't think you're generous at all," Kagami replies. He bends forward to pick his luggage up. "I just thought that coming to you would be the safest option."

Midorima, under the streetlights' illumination, is as calculating as ever. "You do realize that I will get nothing out of this, don't you?"

"Yeah," Kagami admits, "and you probably now know why exactly I'm hiding."

"...NBA star caught in affairs at the prime of his career," Midorima recites a news lead from the top of his head and nods at his comprehension of Kagami's issue. "It's all because of Kuroko. You're as predictable as the sunrise."

Kagami purses his lips upon hearing his name.

Midorima transfers his briefcase to his other hand and says, "Do you have any questions, then? I presume you've missed out on a few years' worth of memories."

_There are a lot of questions left unanswered,_ Kagami wants to say. But he settles for this one.

"Do you know where Kuroko usually stops by nowadays?"

[-]

Kagami is _trying._ He really is.

Maybe it's not just as evident as he thinks it is—especially since no one will be able to take him seriously if he's sporting thick square-rimmed glasses and a faded navy blue hoodie in the middle of the summer. He's barely recognizable in the get-up, but that's what he came here for.

The barista eyes him suspiciously, and Kagami only offers a tight-lipped smile.

"So, what would you like to order, sir?"

Kagami clears his throat at the prompt and says meekly, careful not to give himself away, "Can I just sit here for a moment? I'm still waiting for somebody."

"Hmm, okay," the barista says and signals for the next customer to step up the queue. Kagami digs his chin into the knot of his hoodie. There's also the prospect of just pulling the threads and strangling himself with the hoodie, but he figures that he might as well save his stupidity for later when Kuroko finally comes in.

It's not as if he trusts Midorima (well, maybe just a little—he doesn't have anyone to rely on, after all). Kuroko has been said to always visit the Starbucks located three blocks away from the local kindergarten where he works. Kagami wonders if the children are terrified of Kuroko accidentally sneaking up on them, but he remembers that one day when Kuroko insisted on visiting the orphanage because he needed to give away some of his storybooks. Technically, Kuroko didn't word his statement that way—his voice had been soft and his eyes a little bit wistful. Kagami wasn't sure if he was jealous that Kuroko had never given him an expression like that.

Kagami would be screwed if he forgets what it felt like to stand beside Kuroko while he carried one of the kids and stroked the top of her head.

During that time, Kagami only had a can of Pepsi, and he was close to resolving to pluck off the flip tab and handing it to Kuroko as his pledge for an eternity together.

(Sometimes he thinks that he should've done exactly that; other times, he really doesn't want to think about it.)

Kagami burrows in the last unoccupied couch by the window. There are people reading newspapers, and Kagami assumes that the others who are on their phones and laptops are doing the same. He supposes that people-watching isn't so bad of a pastime.

Tokyo's changed a lot since then. Although this Starbucks Meguro branch has maintained wooden structure designed by Kengo Kuma at the entrance, there are more flowers around the coffee shop. It's a nice break from LA's surroundings; the sight of the freeway is something that's easy to get tired of.

When he clasps his hands under his chin, fate decides to kick in.

The door swings open to reveal Kuroko Tetsuya, only if one looks closely. (Or so Kagami presumes.)

As expected, Kuroko doesn't fail to make Kagami swallow something at the back of his throat, but Kagami can't discern if it's out of captivation or guilt. Kuroko walks silently to the counter. Kagami instinctively leans toward his direction but cups his right hand over the visible side of his face.

"Vanilla latte, please," Kuroko says, fishing his wallet out of his leather bag. "Ah, yes, I'll take an iced Grande today."

It's odd—people can easily notice Kuroko nowadays. The barista smiles at the store's patron. "Running late today, Kuroko?"

"Not exactly," Kuroko replies with a small smile of his own. "Just scorching hot outside, that's all."

"Well, you can always stay inside for as long as you'd like," the barista laughs.

Kagami still can't believe that Kuroko is right here—a few feet away from him and five years older, ordering a latte with the flavor that he's always loved (except it's not a milkshake anymore; he can't accuse Kuroko of changing so much). His voice has slightly changed (deepened, Kagami wants to say, but there's still that Kuroko who was sixteen and asked Kagami to kiss him with just his pubescent melody). Kuroko takes his seat near Kagami's, but from his perspective Kagami's identity won't be discovered.

Kuroko sets his bag on the table and takes out a folder of what appears to be some artworks of his students. From Kagami's view, he can distinguish incomprehensible watercolor drawings and scribbles of names on the bottom right corner. Kuroko's lips curve modestly as he rummages through the front pocket of the bag for his gluestick and cut-out stars. Kagami watches in fascination; he's not so discouraged from looking Kuroko straight in the eye anymore, with the fond expression that he has for his students' lousy work.

"Kuroko," the barista calls out and sets his cup up front. Kuroko dutifully stands up, retrieves his drink, and returns to his spot.

There's just something mesmerizing about the way Kuroko sips his latte distractedly. When he pastes the stars on the artworks, he narrowly avoids knocking his cup over with his free hand, and Kagami hides his laughter when Kuroko breathes out a sigh of relief. From afar, there are things that Kagami is able to see in contrast to the times when he's up close.

One thing that doesn't change in spite of the distance is the fact that Kuroko is beautiful.

Kagami spends approximately an hour just staring at Kuroko looking over children's paintings, and he could probably stay seated if it weren't for the fact that Kuroko's wrapping up and packing. Kuroko bids the barista goodbye and steps out of the store and into the broad daylight.

(His pale blue hair really stands out in the crowd during the summer—not that it doesn't in the other seasons, but still. For the sake of argument, Kagami leaves it at that.)

Kagami slides out of his seat and realizes that he hasn't accomplished his mission for the day.

A groan is buried in the back of his throat.

He decides to fulfill a different task by coming up to the same barista, who raises his eyebrow at him. "Anything you'd like?"

"My companion didn't come," Kagami scratches the back of his head and lowers his gaze in apology. "I'll have an iced vanilla latte, Grande."

The barista nods in affirmation and adds, "Would you like anything else to go with that?"

"Nope," Kagami hands his bills to the barista. (Thank god Midorima reminded him not to bring any of his cards. He wouldn't have gotten this far without anyone noticing who he was.)

After a moment of thought, the barista casually plants his elbows on the counter and lowers his tone. "...Say, was Kuroko your supposed companion?"

"W-who?" Kagami blurts, face flushing at the accusation. The borrowed glasses nearly slide down the bridge of his nose until he takes the initiative to rectify the situation. "What are you talking about?"

"You know," the barista chides, "that blue-haired guy who just walked out. I saw you staring him down like he was a piece of meat."

Kagami waves his hands fervently. "Oh, nono, you've got this all wrong. I wasn't waiting for him. At all."

A disbelieving hum is all that Kagami receives in return. "But you thought he was hot."

"Yeah." Kagami says, but reddens at the slip-up. "I mean, no. Ye—nope. Definitely not."

"Well," the barista says pointedly, disapproving of Kagami's stammers. "I'll have your latte ready in a sec. Iced vanilla, Grande—was it?"

Kagami smiles, unsure, "Yeah...?"

"Funny," the barista turns on his heel and tosses behind his back, "it's the exact same thing Kuroko ordered today."

"You've got a lot of customers," Kagami offers.

"And no one else sticks to vanilla lattes," the barista responds drily, his back still turned to Kagami.

When Kagami accepts his cup, his nose immediately wrinkles at the penmanship.

The barista holds his hands up. "Don't look at me. You didn't give me a name."

Kagami only purses his lips, deciding to leave the burden of coming up with a pseudonym for next time. He does, however, gawk at the handwriting.

"You couldn't have been more subtle about this."

"Yep."

(Apparently, everybody knows that Kagami's still love-drunk with Kuroko, and it's painstakingly obvious in the words _the guy who wants kuroko's ass_ scrawled across his cup with a Sharpie.)

Kagami snorts, shaking his head as he treads out of the store and into the open. He takes a first sip of the latte and blinks.

Kuroko may have switched from shakes to caffeinated drinks, but he definitely hasn't lost his taste.

[-]

The thing about memories is that they change every time you remember them: when Kagami thinks about the deserted court on which he squinted at Kuroko and sensed that this guy probably couldn't play basketball, he doesn't know if he was drawn to Kuroko's mystery or if it was just a trick well-played by nostalgia to fool him into believing that every second he spent with Kuroko was one where they had already been polar opposites attracted to each other.

Kagami's wearing a black beanie and a loose-fitting cotton sweater that barely covers his left shoulder. He packs lunch; he only has one day left before the reunion of Seirin's basketball team, but maybe he can gather enough courage to face Kuroko after many years of dropping off of the face of the Earth.

He begins to fan himself using his clothes. If he had worn the handy black shirt that was a staple during his high school days, Kuroko would recognize him instantly. The element of surprise isn't necessarily important, but he might as well take advantage of it.

(The more he ponders on it, the louder the voice in his mind says, _Great, just jump in the picture and exclaim 'Surprise! I'm back from the dead'_.)

Some of the parents who drop their children off at the kindergarten scrutinize Kagami's outfit once he steps out of the cab. Perhaps they're inclined to assume that he looks like a terrorist with a light blue lunchbox, but he just walks in, hoping to find the teachers' lounge with a hypersensitive heart battering his sternum. Before he has the chance to explore the school grounds, he stops by the office and acquires a visitor ID. He says that Kuroko is his friend. The lady at the front desk squints at him in suspicion. Ultimately, she lets Kagami in, still bothered by the idea of a well-built man strolling in the corridors that are packed with youngsters.

It turns out that Kagami's the one who's in for a surprise—fate conspires with his (foolproof) plan, but it's a little too early for coincidence to come into play. He doesn't notice someone who's eight inches shorter than him head towards his direction. Kagami only realizes that he shouldn't let his mind wander off when he collides against the guy and spills his lunch all over the floor.

Kagami kneels and curses through the side of his mouth, picking up the scattered pieces of food. When he looks up, he murmurs an apology at the sight of sauce on the male's uniform.

And he swallows.

Kuroko dusts off the rice caught on the material of his shirt and helps Kagami up, unhindered by Kagami's weight. Kagami remembers Kuroko's hands as soft, smooth, and perfect when it's molded with his hand. It's different now—he can't even count the callouses on Kuroko's palm.

Kagami sucks in a sharp breath. "K-Kuroko."

At the mention of his name, Kuroko halts in the middle of cleaning up and stares right through Kagami's bewildered expression. "May I help you, sir?"

"I-I'm sorry," Kagami says, looking down at his feet and bending over again to gather the remaining rice particles. He meets Kuroko's gaze, and Kuroko is already thrusting a napkin into his hand. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

"It's alright," Kuroko smiles, occasionally crossing his eyebrows while wiping the stains on his shirt. Kagami stays open-mouthed.

All of this is wrong. The way Kuroko is acting is completely, absolutely, positively wrong.

(Maybe it's just the effect of time—after all, not even the strongest rock can withstand the wind and the rain's efforts to weather it into something entirely new.)

"Are you here for the parent-teacher conference?" Kuroko asks, fixated on eradicating a particularly nasty stain on his sleeve.

Kagami, dumbfounded, exhales shakily. He resorts to staring at the stains he caused. "Ah, I'm not. I'm just..."

Kuroko eventually gives up on the sleeve's stain. He does, however, remember what exactly he was meaning to ask. "Out of curiosity, sir...how did you know what my name was?"

"What do you mean," Kagami spits out, palms excessively damp and pulse beginning to quicken again, "what do you mean how do I know what your name is?"

"I'm not wearing a name tag," Kuroko says, his blue irises boring through Kagami's red ones.

Disconcerted in the situation, Kagami takes his beanie and glasses off, ruffling his striking rosso corsa hair. "Kuroko. It's me, Kagami."

.

To say the least, Kuroko doesn't seem to be the least bit fazed.

Kagami inhales, waiting for an answer.

(He already knows what it is.)

It comes a few minutes later, when the school bell rings. Kagami doesn't listen to it—it's just tasteless blaring and kids screaming and none of them matter, when Kuroko's giving him the look that Kagami had never imagined he would ever receive.

Kagami's voice catches in his throat.

"I'm sorry," Kuroko offers one last smile, and it's nowhere near the smiles that Kagami had seen and kissed off of Kuroko's face in the past.

.

"I don't think I've ever met you before."

**to be continued**


End file.
